


An Angel in Wonderland

by Chrysiridia_rhipheus



Series: Curiouser and Curiouser [2]
Category: Alice In Wonderland - Lewis Carroll, Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, Gen, Some themes of Rape/Noncon, not really a romance, unless you squint, very slight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:33:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27553891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrysiridia_rhipheus/pseuds/Chrysiridia_rhipheus
Summary: Hi guys and welcome to this *little* one shot! This is my very late Halloween special for my fic “We’re All Mad Here,” I hope the wait was worth it!This can also be read as a stand-alone, welcome to all readers not from my other series! All you need to know for reading this fic is that Reader is an angel, and that angels have horns, everything else should be pretty self-contained, but feel free to ask if you have questions!Hazbin Hotel of course belongs to the wonderful and talented Vivziepop, and Alice in Wonderland belongs to...I suppose the estate of Lewis Carol. Either way neither belongs to me!Anyways, without further ado, I give you, An Angel in Wonderland!
Relationships: Implied Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)/Reader, Implied Charlie Magne/Vaggie
Series: Curiouser and Curiouser [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1993255
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	An Angel in Wonderland

You are beginning to get very tired of listening to the lecture Michael is giving. His voice drones on and on in such a bewildering manner, that you find yourself quite out of sorts with the substance of his argument. You are being reprimanded, certainly, if his tone and the gathered crowd are any indication, but he has such a peculiar way of talking _through_ you that you seem to have lost the thread. Certainly, he is in charge, and he naturally delivered any reprimands, but they are always so terribly boring that you can hardly stay awake.

Your mind wanders, which of course is something Michael and the other angels have warned you against. Curiosity leads to sin, they say, but you just can’t seem to help yourself. Michael does go on _so_ long, and his lectures are _so_ dry, and of course he is never right about anything, but always seem to twist his words round so that he comes out on top even when you know yourself to be correct. 

There is a crowd gathered, listening to the reprimand. They should, of course, be watching you, but they all seem distracted by Michael’s speech. When he turns his back, their gazes follow, quite ignoring you. All at once you have a mad idea, and, gathering the pleated edge of your robe, you step into the crowd and sneak away.

Of course, you are quite tall, but if you duck you think that no one will notice you, and so no one does, and you come out the other end of the group quite alone and unnoticed. Around you stretches the soft ground of heaven, not remarkable in the least except perhaps in just how very unremarkable it is. Everything is all one color, that color, naturally, being white.

You consider your options for escape, knowing that the group will miss you before too terribly long, and that a reprimand cannot forever be avoided, when suddenly a blur of white and pink streaks by your vision.

You do not consider, as you probably should, the presence of the strange color pink in heaven, which is quite out of sorts with the overall color palate, being not even a pastel shade but a rather obnoxiously bright sort of affair. Instead, you track the movement with your eyes and spot a small rabbit-demon, hopping across the landscape. Neither does the presence of a demon in heaven strike you as odd in the least, though doubtless it should, as it all seems very mundane and natural to you in the moment.

The rabbit-demon pauses for a moment, pulling a long silver pocket watch out of the pleated pink pocket of its dress, orange hair tossing with its twitching movements

“Oh man, oh gosh, I’m gonna be so late” She mutters, tapping the watch-face frantically with one white claw-tipped paw, before stuffing it back into the pocket and darting off behind a building.

This, of course, sends you scurrying after the little white rabbit, for it flashes across your mind that rabbits have no business talking, and then, all at once, that neither a rabbit _nor_ a demon for that matter have any business in _heaven_.

You dash after the creature, turning the corner just in time to see a fluffy white tail and one stockinged foot disappear behind the next building. 

“Well,” you think to yourself, “What an awfully fast rabbit this is, for being so very small.” For, naturally, as an angel of your rank, you stand nearly fourteen feet tall, and the rabbit barely two.

When you turn the next corner, however, the rabbit appears gone, and instead you see a small hole, drilling into the fluffy white. This is extraordinarily strange as the hole is surrounded by a ring of reddish dirt, which you are quite certain should not be there, nor anywhere near the cloudy ground.

Curious, you move towards the hole, which is rather small, and bend over it. From within, you hear the faint squeaking voice of the rabbit calling _oh man oh gosh_.

You look around, but no one seems to have noticed this new very strange development, and so you decide to investigate on your own. You congratulate yourself on being so very skinny, as it lets you squeeze right into the hole, though your horns to scrape a little on the roof as you crawl forwards. You move down at a gentle angle for a moment, allowing you to wonder about the marvelous strangeness of the whole occurrence, before the ground pitches down sharply and opens up into a much _larger_ hole, and then you are **falling.**

You must either fall very slowly, or else the fall was a very long ways, for the distance seems to go forever. At first you think to catch yourself with your wings, but then think that the tunnel is far too narrow, and that you might lose your wing tips on the edges if you are not careful. So instead, you are left to fall unaided, down down and still further down through the baffling hole. The light shifts first from blue to gray, and then to a deep sort of red that lights up the walls from below.

“I shall never complain about descending to earth again after a fall like this,” You think to yourself, smoothing the pleats of your robe with one hand to keep them from flipping up to cover your face. 

And you do find that you quite _like_ falling, the rush in your stomach nearly makes you laugh, which is strange because you usually never laugh, but this fall goes on for so terribly long that you find yourself growing bored, and that alone seems to make you want to laugh.

“What a queer hole this is” you think, giggling.

Then, as the red light from below increases, you notice that the hole itself is quite well furnished, lined with bookshelves and chairs and even a full grand piano, all falling a nearly your speed, or perhaps you really are falling very slowly and all these little objects simply hang in space.

“How very peculiar!” you exclaim aloud, for it is a peculiar sort of hole to have such things in it.

They are all, of course, too small for you, but you do quite like the look of them, even plucking a single blue dress off of a hanger and inspecting it. Pretty things, dresses, although you yourself tend only to wear a robe. You wonder at it as you watch it fall away from you in a blue billow.

Down down down, would the fall never end? You hum to yourself to pass the time, a little church hymn, and then a piece of a song you had once heard on earth, which of course you could never sing in heaven, but in this strange hole you suppose there is no one to get you into trouble for such a thing.

And then, with a tremendous crash, you find yourself breaking clear through the ceiling of some sort of building, landing with a resounding _thud_ on the checkered floor below, rolling over and over before coming to an awkward stop. The dust is cloying and thick, but you are quite unhurt aside from a strong urge to sneeze, and so you sit up and dust yourself off and inspect this new and strange place.

The room is long and round, with odd angles and altogether too many lamps on the ceiling, casting a surprisingly poor light. On one wall, there is a black glass-like pane that you expect may be a screen or something of the sort. Around you, on the other walls, are doors of every type, ornate and simple, wood and clouded glass, but all rather shorter than you. 

“Oh dear,” you think to yourself, quite out of sorts, “this room is made for a demon, it’s all much too small,”

But you are, of course, proud of your height, and so decide not to blame your predicament on your size, as melancholy will lead to no good things, and instead resolve inspect the doors. Perhaps, you reason, you shall be able to squeeze through one if you try. You are, after all, quite thin.

Determined, you test every door handle, but find them all locked. You think to break one down, even, but find that you cannot raise your legs in this cramped space sufficiently to strike the door, and so you are trapped.

With a sigh, you sit down on the floor, looking around the room and thinking that you may be quite lost here unless some poor unfortunate angel were to find the rabbit-hole and chase after you. But then, of course, there would be two of you in this room, and there is certainly too little space for that, and then you should be suffocated by a lack of air. You have, unfortunately, quite forgotten that angels do not need to breathe, and the thought of suffocation makes you suddenly quite scared, and so you look around the room again for anything to help you escape.

In the center of the room you notice a small table that you are certain was not there seconds ago. The little thing is perhaps four feet high, and on it is a tiny key. You pick the key up between two fingers, and think that here is the means of your salvation. You try the key on every door, hoping for one of the taller ones through which you might just be able to fit your shoulders, but to your dismay, the key finally fits in the smallest door of all. You cannot extend your neck to see through the door, you cannot even lay on the ground so that you might peer through it with one eye, but you do hear birds and know that it must lead somewhere, if only you could fit.

“Looks like you’re in a bind hot stuff.” A crackling voice startles you, causing you to knock into one of the lanterns as you straighten up and turn towards the sound. The wall with the black glass has suddenly illuminated, showing a pair of glowing red eyes over a sharp-toothed smile. The whole picture is riddles with static, and you are aware of a buzzing noise which you find quite bothersome.

“Where’s the fire, babe? Looks like you’re too big to fit, which I know a thing or two about myself.” The face grins at you, and the eyes look you up and down. You decide immediately that, first of all, your robe is entirely too short, and second of all that you don’t much like this sudden visitor. The face strikes you as anything but friendly, and besides the electric noise, you are forced to stand _very_ close to it, which you do not enjoy in the least.

“I’m quite alright thank you,” You say politely, but the face does not seem inclined to disappear.

“Awww, don’t be like that, I’m just here to help a pretty lady in need” The screen smiles again, and you notice a slight trail of red from one corner of its mouth, as though someone had struck the face just recently and bloodied its lip. You think that you quite envy that person, whosoever they may be. You suppose that you must try and reason with the thing.

“Well, that’s all well and good, but I’m out here and you’re,” You wave one hand at the screen, “in there, I don’t see just how you could offer any help.” You try to turn away from it, but the room is small and you feel a pinch in your neck, so you give up.

“Oh baby, I’m not ‘ _in_ ’ anywhere, not yet at least,” and then there’s another uncomfortable grin, “This is just my handsome face.”

You scoff, and the face’s smile only brightens.

“You wound me baby, you wound me. But, I’m a nice guy, a people-pleaser, so I’ll help you out anyways.”

In spite of your misgivings, you must admit that you are in quite the bind, and you think perhaps you may have misjudged this strange television-demon, because you realize now that that’s what he must be, a demon.

“Baby, if you want to fit through the door, you’re gonna need to shrink to the right size, and there might just be something on that little table over there to help with that.” One glowing eye winks at you, and you huff, turning towards the table and putting your back somewhat to the screen.

You bend down at the waist, minding your head, and notice a small bottle on the table, barely the size of your thumb. Tied to the bottle is a slip of bright red paper, on which is written “drink me”

But you, of course, being familiar with the clever tricks of demons, check that the bottle is not marked poison, certain that if you drink too much from a bottle marked poison, nothing good would come of it.

The bottle has no such mark, but still you hesitate to take a sip. 

“If this is meant for demons” you think to yourself, “it might not agree with me.”

“Nice view from back here,” the crackling voice of the television comes from behind you, and you decide at once to drink the bottle, for at least it was sure to change _something_.

“What a strange flavor!” you exclaim, for the drink tastes very much like a custard tart, something which you neither know nor have ever before tasted, but find that you quite enjoy. You go to take a second sip, not noticing that the bottle has now outgrown your hand, and then a third, until the bottle is altogether too large for you to drink from, and you must set it aside.

And now, you find, you are just the right size for the little door which must lead to the outside, and so you scurry over, kicking off the over-large creases of your fallen robe as you go, for you are now not quite a foot high, much too small for your clothes.

“Wow, and I though the view was nice before,” The television remarks, but you have resolved to ignore him completely and leave without speaking another word, which would have been a marvelous plan were it not for the fact that the door is now closed and locked.

“Ah, well at least I have the key,” you think, turning back to your robe and looking for the metal thing. You sift through the folds of fabric, but all you come up with is the little blue dress you had found in the rabbit-hole, which must have fallen through the ceiling with you. You find nothing else despite your continued search until the television whistles for your attention. A blinking red arrow has appeared on his screen, one which points towards the little glass table, now quite anything but little. From below, through the glass you see the key, far out of reach.

“Tough luck babe, but I certainly ain’t complaining.” The screen hums at you, raising its eyebrows in a disgusting manner. This remark you fail to ignore, but it does bring your attention to a rather important issue, that being that you are quite naked.

You let out a little squeal and dash towards your robe, holding the folds up between you and the lascivious television, and trying to find a way to tear off a piece to make a new robe. Your gaze lights, as you attempt this futile task—for angelic fabric is quite hard to tear, especially with such small hands—on the small blue dress, tossed on the ground, and you scoop it up. It seems to be just your size now, and, when you check the tag, you see that it is made of “elastic” material.

“Well, let’s hope that it can stretch with any more unexpected changes,” you muse, as you slip into the dress, smoothing out the creases and zipping up the back. You notice, to your dismay, that your wings seem to have wandered off somewhere, but you find that you aren’t terribly worried about it at the moment, though it would have made retrieving the key that much simpler.

Ah, the key! You must do something about that,

You try at first to climb the table, but the metal struts are far too smooth and you merely fall back to the ground as the television laughs at you meanly.

“Oh, now look at me, smaller than any demon, without even my wings, how shall I ever get out of this mess?” You worry the edge of your dress and find yourself very near crying, which you have no intentions of doing in front of this rude television set.

Just when you consider your troubles to be quite insurmountable, your gaze lights on a small box directly next to the table leg, just the right size for your tiny form. When you pick up the box and open it, you find a small cake, with the icing spelling “eat me.”

“Certainly this cake will make me change some-way, but it’s impossible to tell which!” you say to yourself.

You think, however, that no matter which way the cake makes you grow you should at least be better off than you are right now, for if you shrink you should be able to slip under the door, and if you grow you could retrieve the key. You eat the cake in one tremendous bite.

“Which way? Which way?” you wonder, placing a hand on your head to tell. Before you can make a guess at your direction, the edge of the table is sailing past you, shrinking and shrinking, until you are quite larger than you had been before, perhaps even as large as Michael himself.

A muffled voice comes from behind you, and you turn painfully to see the screen, leering up from under your hips.

“Damn baby you really know how to keep a guy entertained, but usually I get a girl’s name before we start getting so _close_. I’m Vox baby.” The screen smiles and licks its lips with a digital tongue, and you are feeling quite overwhelmed, perhaps a bit faint.

Deciding to get out of here as quickly as possible, you reach down towards the table and tip the bottle and the key into your palm. The bottle is barely the size of your fingernail, and you swallow the rest of it in one drop, holding the key all the while.

Your new dress really must be elastic, because when you shrink it keeps right up with you, and fits just as well when you are ten inches high as twenty feet. You grin at the key, large in your hand, and look back at Vox, the television.

“You’re not gonna leave me hanging here are you baby?” The face follows you as you shrink, now looming above you, “After all that foreplay?”

You are altogether sick of this ill-mannered demon, and so you turn on a heel and march towards the door, unlocking it with the key and heading straight out into the reddish daylight.

“Fucking tease.” The electronic voice sighs behind you.

Through the door now, you find yourself to be on the edge of the forest, which, while appearing quite good and proper from the outside, fills you with a strange sort of dread the longer you look at it.

“I feel as though the shadows are moving all about” you think rather dizzily, and decide to sit down against the door. To your surprise, however, the door has disappeared completely, leaving you in the middle of a little glen, the forest on all sides.

“Oh dear, what shall I do now?” You wonder, looking all around at the darkening forest, “It all grows blacker by the minute, and I shall have to walk through some of it if I am to find my way out,”

And then, all at once, a figure leaps from the forest and dashes across the clearing, ignoring you completely.

“Oh gosh, I’m totally late, oh man the Queen is gonna be so mad at me, oh man oh man,”

It’s the fretting white rabbit, darting through the forest on stockinged paws, pink poodle skirt swishing in the slight breeze and pink-orange bob twitching in anxious frenzy.

“Excuse me, miss rabbit!” You say, suddenly remembering your original peculiar purpose. The rabbit, however, is now nearly twice your size and ignores you completely, hopping off across the clearing and anxiously tapping it’s pocket watch.

You don’t feel terribly inclined to enter the dark forest, in fact you are quite certain that if you do it will only lead to trouble, however you think yourself to be entirely out of options at this point. And with every moment you ponder your predicament, the rabbit hops closer and closer to the trees until it is in the great shadow of the forest and you are gathering up your skirts and racing after it shouting “Oh Miss Rabbit! Please wait, Miss Rabbit, I would very much like to speak with you! Miss Rabbit!”

The rabbit had been quick in heaven, when you were three times its size, but now on your small legs she seems impossibly fast. You do keep her fluffy white tail in your sight for a few minutes as you push through the leaves, but the white orb grows only farther and farther away until it is quite out of sight and you are utterly alone.

“Oh I just knew something awful would happen if I went through these woods, and now look at me, I’ve not the foggiest idea of where I am or where I may get to.”

You feel again as though you might cry, which is unusual because you rarely cry, and so instead you sit down on a rather large mushroom and try to regain your composure, as crying never helped anyone solve anything.

You think that, at the very least, you know yourself to be lost, which must be much better than not knowing yourself to be lost, for however could you find yourself if you didn’t know to look? This cheers you up some, and you resolve to make an effort at escaping this gloomy place, deciding to pick a direction and walk straight on until you find yourself again.

This proves to be some trouble, for the forest is quite the same on all sides and you cannot tell which direction would be best, but decide that if you walk long enough in any one direction you are sure to get somewhere, and march off to your right with purpose.

Before long you stumble into another glade, much like the one in which you saw the white rabbit. This glade is somewhat smaller than the first, as well as somewhat more poorly lit, and so you almost do not notice the two figures standing stock still on the far edge until you are some ways across the clearing.

The two figures stand at a short distance from one another, frozen as though in the middle of some argument or fight. One is smaller, a girl with a single staring pink eye with a bright yellow X in the center instead of a pupil. Her pink hair is half pulled up into a scruffy pigtail, while the rest of it hangs in a chaotic mane around her head. The other figure is somewhat taller, with a long dark body like a snake and a pale yellow underbelly dotted with reddish eyes. It has a hood something like a cobra, which is raised and angry, it’s forked tongue sticking out of its fanged mouth.

Both figures are dressed quite the same, in little red suit jackets much like a school-child might wear. Neither figure looks much like the other, and yet their clothes match perfectly, you find them a rather confusing pair. You notice something stitched on the two collars and step in close, trying to read the embroidered letters.

“Why, Tweedledum” You read from the snake figure, “and Tweedledee” from the girl, “what very peculiar wax figures!” The names remind you of something, an old song or rhyme maybe, you can’t quite remember the words…

“Looking’s for free, touching’s gonna cost you,” the single big eye blinks suddenly, and the open mouth curves into a smile. The girl is talking, and you jump back in shock.

“A wax figure? Please! No mere wax could look this good.” The snake speaks next, drawing out the “s” sounds in a hiss.

“I’m sure I’m very sorry!” you stammer, looking between the two suddenly moving figures in shock.

“Yeah, save it.” The pink haired girl sighs, putting one hand on her hip and looking you up and down with that big staring eye, “And don’t call me Tweedledee.”

You open your mouth to apologize again, but the snake, now moving, seems very energetic, his hood flaring out dramatically when he speaks.

“I too object to the name Tweedledum, I would prefer not to be associated with that gutter trash” He rears up slightly, curling his tail beneath him and looking down his snout at the other figure.

Then, quite out of nowhere, the song comes to you and you can’t help but recite it:

_Tweedledum and Tweedledee_

_agreed to have a battle_

_For Tweedledum said Tweedledee_

_had spoiled his nice new rattle_

But before you can recite the rest of the rhyme, the two demons—for certainly you think that must be what they are—interrupt you.

“Can it!” The girl yells, waving one pink hand.

“Stop that!” The snake hisses, his tail shaking irritably.

Once again, you wonder at what a peculiar pair these two are.

“And either way it’s no rattle this harlot spoiled, its my hat! She swiped it!”

“Yeah right tin man, I didn’t touch your fuckin’ hat. _You_ took my bomb.”

The two step towards one another, fists raise in something like a pantomime of a fighting stance.

You step up to the two, putting one hand towards each in a placating gesture.

“Excuse me, but if you don’t want me to call you Tweedledum or Tweedledee, then what shall I call you?”

The two turn to you suddenly and shout over one another, and the effect is quite confusing, and they have to try two more times before they manage to separate their answers.

“I’m Sir Pentious, charmed to be meeting you miss, though not as charmed as you must be to be meeting me.” He draws himself up even higher, pressing one hand to his chest.

“Cherri Bomb, and, ignore this idiot.” She puts a hand to her head, as though she has a headache.

“I resent that remark.” Sir Pentious hisses, tossing one edge of his hood over his shoulder. It rather looks like hair when it is down, which you find rather endearing.

“Would either of you two happen to have seen a white rabbit pass through here?” you ask, remembering your quest before these two curious not-twins can distract you further.

“A white rabbit eh?” Sir Pentious puts a hand to his chin, as though deep in thought. Cherri tosses her hair disdainfully and regards you.

“Maybe we did, maybe we didn’t, what’s in it for me if I tell you?” She asks.

“Well,” you ponder, “what do you want?”

“My bomb.” Says Cherri.

“My hat.” Says Sir Pentious.

“Oh dear.” You say.

You feel that perhaps these two may not be able to help you, and you are rather in a hurry, so you make a move to step past the pair and continue into the woods.

“Wait!” they say together, and then glare at one another.

You wait a moment, expecting them to continue, but they seem to have fallen into another staring match, and so you turn to go again.

“Hold it!” They say together again, and then both sigh in defeat.

“Aren’t you going to make this whore return my hat?” Sir Pentious asks.

“I told you I didn’t take your lame-ass hat, so why don’t you give me back my bomb already?” Cherri’s face reddens.

They look at you expectantly, but you are entirely at a loss for how to solve their quarrel.

“Well,” you try, “perhaps Miss Cherri didn’t steal your hat, Mr. Pentious—”

“That’s Sir!” he exclaims.

“Sir Pentious,” you correct, “If she says that it isn’t so then I do think that—”

“If it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t, obviously.” The snake responds with a hiss, looking quite pleased with himself.

“That doesn’t make any sense dipshit,” Cherri adds, elbowing her cohort in the ribs, although you aren’t at all sure where his ribs start and stop, being half snake as he is.

“It makes absolute sense you philistine, though I can’t expect you to understand the nuances of—” The rest of Sir Pentious’s argument is lost when Cherri Bomb throws herself at him, and the two roll over and over in the grass wrestling and fighting.

You think, perhaps, that you should break up the fight, but then again you do want to know just where the rabbit was going, and why it was running through heaven to get there. You deliberate for a moment, but decide that the White Rabbit likely won’t wait, while these too seem like they may be occupied for quite some time, and so you creep away into the trees as quietly as you can.

You are pleased to discover that the edge of the clearing leads to a little path, complete with a wooden signpost. You feel very optimistic now about your chances, although the signpost does pose some slight confusion.

The arrows pointing back along the path the way you have come read:

_To Tweedledum’s House_

_To The House of Tweedledee_

“Well I certainly don’t want to go that way.” You declare, and walk around the sign to read the other posts, which are:

_Niffty’s Burrow_

_The Garden of Living Flowers_

_The Red Palace_

“I don’t know anyone named Niffty,” you muse, “and I am quite sure that _all_ flowers are alive, but a palace sounds lovely, so I suppose this way would be best.” You say this mostly to reassure yourself, for there is no third direction in which you could go, so really you have no choice at all in the matter.

And so you continue down the road in the direction indicated, and soon you find yourself outside of a charming little cottage just as the woods begin to thin. The house is a rather startling shade of hot pink, but the garden is immaculate, with rows of perfectly spaced pansies and daisies, with a clean-cut vegetable patch behind a sparkling picket fence.

You approach the house warily, half expecting another set of demons to pop out from behind every tree trunk and manicured hedge, but the house remains quiet. You wander into the yard, looking about yourself. Everything is very neat, for a garden, even the flower bushes all have the same number of blooms. You step towards the vegetable garden, intending to cross the lawn, but the moment your foot touches the grass a squeaking voice comes from above you.

“Don’t step on the lawn! I just trimmed it, oh man, you’re gonna squish it all up.”

You step off the lawn with a startled gasp and look up, seeing the long white ears and fluffy orange hair of the white rabbit poking out of the upstairs window. Before you can say anything, it has disappeared back inside the house, and you hear a frantic rustling noise.

“Where is my feather duster? I know I had it just a second ago, come on!” The voice of the rabbit floats down from the window. You backtrack, scurrying towards the front door and raising a hand to knock.

“Wait don’t touch the door! I just repainted it, it’s still wet!”

The rabbit’s head pops up above you directly, through a different window this time. You pause, look up, but the head disappears just as it had before.

“Oh, I just want to know what it is that she’s so late for, I’m awfully curious, but I can’t seem to get a word in.”

You step back, your feet crunching on the gravel as you try to peer in through the tall windows, when the door flies open, and the rabbit is right in front of you.

“Of the gravel, go on, off off off!” She exclaims, waving her hands at you in a shooing motion. You scurry to the side, nearly stepping on the flower beds, when the rabbit lifts you off the ground in one hand, sparing the flowers.

“Um, Miss Rabbit? If I could just speak to you for a moment—”

“No no no, and I _just_ leveled the gravel. And now there’s pests in the garden too, oh man this day is nuts.” The Rabbit talks right over you, not listening to your attempts in the least.

She holds you at arm’s length, walking around the house before tossing you into a leaf pile.

You are not quite half the size of the rabbit, so she throws you with no trouble, and the leaves cover you completely.

“Oh no, I’m _so_ late, oh gosh, I’ll just have to use my backup feather duster.”

You flounder to break through the leaves, but before you are even a bit free of the fluff, you hear the thumping steps of the rabbit as she scurries off down the road. By the time your sight is clear, the pink skirt is long out of sight, and you find yourself quite without direction and covered in bits of fallen leaves.

“Oh dear,” you sigh, straightening out your skirt and huffing, “I didn’t even see which way she _went_. Well, I suppose I shall have to start all over looking for her then won’t I?”

You get to your feet with a bit of struggle, but decide to get on your way immediately lest you lose your determination. When you stand, however your stomach rumbles angrily. You have, of course, been running all over the place all day without much of a break, and without anything to eat other than that strange cake earlier, and as a result you are quite hungry. And the leaf pile into which you have been thrown is so _very_ close to the garden.

“Maybe just a little bite from one of those carrots?” you wonder aloud, “the rabbit was so terribly rude, and I’ll put it back in the ground afterwards, she’ll never know the difference.”

Emboldened, you make your way over to the garden and carefully pull up one of the carrots, being especially mindful of not disturbing the ground too much. The carrot looks awfully delicious, and is a beautiful bright orange, you can’t help but dust it on your dress and take a bite from one side.

“Mmm!” you exclaim, for the carrot is just as delicious as it looks, perhaps even more so, and you have to stop yourself from taking another bite, for surely the rabbit would notice if you took too many.

But just as you are returning the carrot to the soil and smoothing over the dirt to hide your intrusion, you begin to feel rather peculiar.

“Oh dear,” you say, “I do believe there was something not quite right about that carrot.”

And then, to your dismay, you find the ground rushing up at you and the carrot plant growing taller and taller until you are not quite three inches high.

This is, of course, quite the predicament, for even if you were to find the rabbit, at your current size she would be sure to look right over you without a second thought. And how ever would she hear your voice, for it must now be awfully quiet.

“Well, then the first order of business is to return to my proper size, and then to find the rabbit,” you consider this, and find that you are not so inclined to look for the rabbit now as you once were, and so amend, “or perhaps to visit the other places on the signpost, the flower garden and the palace, first, and we can decide if we would like to track down the rabbit afterwards.”

Feeling secure in your plan, you start off down the road, which is somewhat more difficult than it was before on account of the inconveniently large size of every pebble, but you are determined to make progress, and so you continue undeterred.

The flower garden must not be very far at all from the rabbits house, but it seems very far indeed on your small legs, and you are quite out of breath by the time you find the entrance, a huge wrought iron gate with “Living Flower Garden” across the top.

Through the gate, the flowers loom tall as trees, but you find them all the more beautiful for their large size, their faces turned towards the golden afternoon light. You can almost imagine that their rustling leaves sound a bit like conversation.

“Again the sign said ‘living,’ when I am quite sure that all flowers are alive, at the very least.” You say to yourself as you walk down the path. 

“Well, of course they’re alive dear, this wouldn’t be much of a garden if the flowers were dead now would it?”

A soft voice startles you nearly out of your new dress, and you spin about trying to locate the source, but see nothing but the bowing flower stems.

“I beg your pardon?” you say to the towering leaves, but no response is forthcoming, “how very peculiar, I almost though for a moment…I must be getting a touch warm from the sun.” Fanning yourself with one hand, you step over towards a large rose bush and sit down on a rock with a sigh.

“Of course we can talk dear, if there’s anything worth saying, but more to the point don’t you know that its rude to sit in someone else’s bed without introducing yourself first.” The voice comes again, louder this time, and you leap up with a little gasp and spin around. Behind you, the bright red blossom of the rose bush has bent down almost to your eye level, its petals glistening with dew.

“I, um, I’m terribly sorry but did you speak to me just now?” You ask the blossom, extending one hand towards the petals.

“Naturally dear, are you dense?” As you watch, a pair of large black eyes seem to open from the flower itself, and blink at you, while two of the petals curl into what looks awfully like a sharp-toothed grin.

“Oh dear, I didn’t mean to intrude Miss—” you trail off, blinking at the rose as it settles a broad green leaf on its head, looking rather like a broad brim hat with a single feather in it.

“Rosie, dear, Miss Rosie. And you must be our little heavenly visitor.” The flower winks one of its dark eyes at you, smiling.

“Why, yes, I am, but, have we met before?” You ask, feeling rather self-conscious.

“Oh no dear, not yet, but we will be very well acquainted in the near future, I’m certain. Now what brings you to my little garden emporium?”

“Oh well, I _was_ following a rabbit—” You begin, when Rosie gasps dramatically.

“A _rabbit?_ How awful, well I can assure you you’re quite safe here, there will be no rabbits in _this_ garden.”

But of course, a rabbit must be unwelcome in a garden of talking flowers, you chide yourself for not being more considerate, and try to change the subject.

“Are you quite alone in this garden Miss Rosie?” you ask.

“Why no dear, how silly of you, this wouldn’t be much of a garden with just a single flower now would it? Even with one that is practically perfect in every way.” The rose seems to preen, a leaf bending to touch the stem much like a hand pressed to a woman’s chest, “But, how silly of me, I simply _must_ introduce you to the others! Oh little roselings!”

Then, all at once, the garden bursts to life around you, and flowers of every type emerge from the foliage. There’s tulips and morning glories and gladiolas and foxgloves and all sorts of beautiful blooms, stretching down on their stems to look at you.

“Why, hello!” You say, but the remaining flowers merely smile blankly, as though they don’t understand a word you have said.

“Don’t mind them dearie,” you startle as a thorned branch settles on your shoulder, drawing your attention back to the beautiful rose with the dark eyes, “they aren’t much for conversation,”

You can smell the floral scent of Rosie with how close she leans into you, and you try not to be rude.

“Well, you are all very lovely,” you say, “are they all friends of yours, Miss Rosie?”

“Oh, you could say that,” The rose smiles thoughtfully.

You notice then, just past Miss Rosie’s petals, an unexpected blank space in the garden, a patch of dirt with neither leaves nor flowers in it. You point towards the strange space and wonder at its presence in such a lush area.

“If you don’t mind my asking Miss Rosie, what is over there in that blank spot?”

The rose turns her bloom slowly towards the spot and then shakes it forlornly. 

“Oh, dearie me, that’s just Franklin’s old plot. He was a dear friend of mine, a lovely Amaryllis, but sadly we had to…weed him out,” Rosie chuckles somewhat darkly, and you scratch your ankle uncomfortably, “But that just means that there’s one more space in the garden for new additions.”

“I suppose so,” you add, watching the grinning flowers looming around you, scratching at your leg and feeling rather uneasy, “Well, it has been lovely meeting you Miss Rosie, but I really must be going now—”

“Oh dearest no! With that awful rabbit on the loose? It’s much too dangerous, and besides, I think you would fit in marvelously here, perhaps as a little daisy or sunflower?”

You are feeling rather claustrophobic in the garden, and you think that you should be making your exit presently, only, your leg is itching terribly. You look down at where you have been scratching, and let out a little gasp. Snaking up your leg, appearing like a dark vein under your skin is some kind of growth. You move your eyes down and find that the origin is a delicate green vine, piercing your leg just at the ankle, and growing up your calf with alarming speed.

“Oh or perhaps a Black-Eyed Susan? That would look so lovely in the blank space. Yes, you just leave everything to me dear, you’ll be well taken care of.”

Rosie looms forward, the other flowers moving closer and closer, until you finally snap out of your reverie and grab the vine. With a soft cry and a stinging pain, you pull the creeping plant out from your skin and duck under the nearest stem, racing back towards the exit as quickly as your tiny legs can carry you. The roselings try their best to impeded your escape, holding leaves and stems across your path, but you duck and shove and run until you are quite out of the gate, Rosie’s laugh echoing behind you.

“No matter dear, everyone returns to garden, _eventually_.”

You don’t waste a single second thinking on this promise, and race off down the road as quickly as you can manage.

“What an absolutely awful garden that was,” you exclaim once the wrought iron gate is quite out of sight, sitting down with a huff on a little mushroom lining the side of the road heavily. You pat the mushroom with one hand, finding yourself relieved that it does not seem inclined to speak to you, or grow little inflorescences into your ankles, “I rather think I prefer mushrooms now, all things considered.”

Your leg is bleeding slightly, but you hope that the blood will wash out any traces of that awful little vine. Indeed, when you inspect the cut, you see what looks like little pieces of green stem floating away on the red.

“How chilling.” You exclaim, and wait for your leg to bleed itself dry, which it does presently and without much of a fuss. You thank your lucky stars that even at three inches high everything still seems to be in working order.

“Well, now that that’s sorted, I suppose the next thing is to return to my proper size,” you say, standing up and brushing large sticky pollen grains from your dress. For, of course, nothing good has ever come of melancholy, and you see no use in sitting on this mushroom and feeling sorry for yourself.

You resolve that your best chance is to continue along the path until you find something or other to eat or drink, for you suppose that to be the best way to return to your normal size. While ordinarily, eating food that you find lying alongside a dirt path would perhaps not be the most advisable plan, you decide that this day has been quite strange enough without consideration for good manners, and that you won’t risk confusing yourself any further. 

Before long, you come across what you at first assume is a large and strangely perfect tree planted right at a fork in the road. After a moment of inspection, however, you realize that this is in fact a signpost, with several towering arrows. Unfortunately, from your tiny position, you can’t see the letters painted along the arrows, no matter where you stand. The post is simply too tall, and you too small.

Frustrated, you look around, trying to discern anything about the two paths, but each of them disappears of into a slight mist. The air feels rather damp, not that you think about it, perhaps it is going to rain.

“Oh dear,” you fret, your fingers _tap tap tapping_ along one of your horns nervously as you consider your options, “I do so want to get to the palace. Do you suppose that all roads lead there eventually? Perhaps it doesn’t much matter which path I take.” You try to reason with yourself, but you still feel uneasy. You had been quite lost in the forest before and it had been none too fun, and you aren’t keen to be lost again.

“I suppose all I can do is pick one way, and if it is wrong then I shall turn around and try the other.” This logic seems as good as anything, and so, on miniscule legs, you make your way down the right path.

The mist grows thick around you all the time as you walk, until you can hardly see your hand in front of your face, but you carry on, determined to get to somewhere even if it is nowhere in particular, for at least then you will know to turn back. Soon, the packed dirt under your feet softens and turns to peat, and fallen leaves increasingly litter the path. Large dark shadows loom up on your left and right, which you assume to be trees, and think that the path must have brought you quite into another part of the forest. You continue on, undeterred, pushing past towering weeds and over fallen twigs the size of logs, when a slight breeze lifts the fog for a moment, revealing that you have wandered from the path entirely.

“Oh darn,” You mutter, turning round in place, looking for any sign of the path, but you aren’t at all sure how long ago you lost the way, or in what direction the path might be. The forest around you is uniform, dark and impossibly big, you aren’t even sure which way you came from a moment before.

“That orange leaf looks rather familiar..” you try to talk to yourself as you walk, reasoning your way back to what you hope is the path. Neither effort works, and presently you are lost and quite afraid in the forest once again.

You are quite certain that if you stop walking, you will burst into tears, and you know that crying will get you nowhere, so you continue to trudge through the soft peat and over the leaf litter in no particular direction, hoping to stumble across the right way once again. You reason that with legs as small as yours, you cannot be altogether too far from the path after all. 

After what feels like quite a while, you hear a very faint sound drifting towards you across the damp forest floor. The sound is not quite singing, not quite buzzing, but something in between, and plays itself quietly between the trees. Thrilled to have located anyone else in this frightening place, you scurry off across the leaves towards the sound, hopping over small white mushrooms as you go.

Presently, you push through a clump of grass about twice your height, and find yourself in a small clearing, with a single watery ray of sunlight filtering down towards a rather magnificent mushroom. The mushroom, in spite of its impressive size and strange yellow color, is not, however, what grabs your attention. Instead you are drawn to a rather large caterpillar perched atop the mushroom cap, perhaps just under six inches long, lounging back on a large and colorful pillow and puffing from a golden hookah. 

The caterpillar appears quite insensible, or at least, it is taking not the smallest notice of you or anything else, as it lazily blows smoke rings into the air and hums a formless tune. The caterpillar is a striking fellow, with a soft gray body and a bold red head and rump, capped by innumerous and rather fetching soft black hairs or spikes of some sort. His eyes are closed behind a pair of wide, heart-shaped glasses, but his mouth is stretched in a wide languid smile which reveals one sparkling gold-capped tooth. 

You find yourself rather enthralled, and you step forward into the clearing, hopping across some smaller mushrooms until you can rest your arms on the side of the largest cap, just out of arms reach of the strange caterpillar. 

He hums the song for some time more, occasionally inhaling great lung-fulls of smoke from his hookah and blowing them into dazzling patterns in the air above him. The smoke appears curiously multi-colored, sometimes shifting into a pale pink, sometimes to a deep emerald, and other times to a shocking yellow that matches the mushroom itself. You are so very distracted by the tune and the smoke patterns, that you almost don’t notice when the caterpillar speaks.

“And just who are you?” his voice has the same strange buzzing quality as his song, and the words seems to mingle with the notes, floating up and away like the smoke clouds. It is not until the caterpillar turns its large head towards you and opens one slitted red eye that you realize it had been speaking to you.

“I-I’m sorry, sir, what was that?” You stammer, blinking in surprise.

“I asked _who_ are you, you little lamb, and why you have wandered into the tigers den?” The caterpillar blows a particularly impressive bright red smoke ring and shifts to face you.

“Well, I hardly know how to answer that sir. You see I knew who I was this morning when I woke up, but I fear I have changed several times since—”

“Baby, baby, baby, don’t think too hard about it, you’re liable to hurt that pretty little head of yours,” The caterpillar extends its golden hookah, catching you under the chin and tipping your head up as if for inspection. You press your lips together, feeling somewhat uncomfortable under the caterpillar’s red gaze.

“Oh you are a sweet young thing, aren’t you? And what did you say you were doing here sweetheart?” The caterpillar’s buzzing voice lowers into a sort of purr, and you avert your eyes nervously.

“Well, I’m a bit turned around, you see, I was trying—” You start again, but the caterpillar cuts you off once more.

“Lost? Oh baby that’s too bad,” He makes a tsking noise and leans in so close that you can smell the thick spicy musk of the hookah on his breath, “It would break my heart for something to happen to a doll like you.”

And then, without warning, the caterpillar has seized you in six of its little hands and hoisted you onto the mushroom, sitting you down just next to its pillow and curling its long body around your knees.

“I’m Valentino baby, but you can call me Val. If you stay with me you won’t have to worry about a thing, not a single thing babycakes.” Val passes you its hookah, looking expectant. Not wanting to be rude, you attempt to do what he had done previously and inhale the smoke, but you almost immediately begin to gag and choke. Val rubs your back sympathetically as you cough out little puffs of multicolored smoke and wheeze for breath.

“First time baby? Don’t worry, tons of guys love the innocent thing, you’re gonna be a smash babe, an absolute smash, my pretty little angel baby.” The caterpillar inches closer to you, but you are feeling rather light headed from the smoke and altogether a bit put off by Val’s strange mood and insistent proximity. With a little cough, you make your way towards the edge of the mushroom.

“I’m awfully sorry Val, sir, but I really must be going, I would really very much like to—” Your words leave you with a little huff when your leg is pulled out from under you, leaving you sprawled on the mushroom cap.

“Oh, so clumsy baby, you shouldn’t be going anywhere in that condition, come on back to Val sugar.” Perturbed, you roll over and sit up, pushing your skirt back down over your lap and shaking your head.

“What’s the matter baby? Isn’t there anything you _want_ , maybe something Val could help you with? Come on sugar, I know there must be something.” Valentino’s long body has snaked its way towards you, and he sweeps you back over to his lounging head in one smooth motion. You let out a little yelp and plant your hands firmly on your skirt. 

Val makes you dreadfully uncomfortable, not unlike that awful television in the room with the doors, but he is right, you do desperately want to return to your normal size, and you haven’t seen any little boxes of cake or glass bottles or anything whilst you were walking.

“Ah, I see it babe, there’s something you want, isn’t there? Come now and just tell daddy what it is, I’ll make it happen for you, anything you want.” Val dips his head down towards you, blowing out another cloud of thick pinkish smoke that swirls around your neck in a disconcerting manner.

“Well,” you begin hesitantly, waving the smoke away with one hand, “I had quite wanted to return to my original size, you see I have been growing and shrinking all day long and its become rather confusing.”

Val blinks at you and then laughs a loud barking laugh.

“Is that all baby? Return to your normal size? What an easy gal you are.” He winks and you do your best not to wince. “Well that’s as simple as can be baby, all you have to do is eat from this mushroom, that’s all. One side makes you grow, one makes you shrink. It’s not much of a trip though, disappointingly.” Valentino takes another puff of his smoke and blows out a lime green cloud.

“Really? How peculiar!” You exclaim, looking all around you at the lemon yellow mushroom and wondering which side is which. You make to crawl to one side, but Val stops you with one hand.

“Now, now sugar, not so fast. I helped you, now what are you gonna do for me? How can you help Val?” You lean away from Val’s sharp grin when he moves towards you, trying to keep a comfortable distance. 

“Well, I suppose, knowing how to return to my height is terribly useful, I did so want to be taller than three inches when I reached the Palace.” You say thoughtfully.

Valentino recoils as if struck, glaring at you from behind his heart-shaped glasses.

“The Palace?” he buzzes angrily, sounding not unlike a swarm of wasps, “The Red Queen’s palace? That fuckin place? _That’s_ where you’re goin?” You scoot back anxiously. Val has begun to puff furiously on his hookah, the smoke an angry dirty red, and it chokes the air.

“What are you working with that red fuck? And you dare to step foot on my turf?” The smoke thickens, and you find yourself tumbling head over heels off the far end of the mushroom trying to get away from the smell, landing with a small gasp on the ground below.

Above you, the massive edge of the mushroom looms, and thick red smoke leaks over like water, pooling in the dirt in a grotesque manner. Then, suddenly, the smoke dissipates, and you are left quite alone under the mushroom. You can just grip the edge of the thing if you jump, and you struggle to pull yourself up over the ledge to see what has become of Val.

When you pull yourself over, you are surprised to see that Valentino is quite gone, only his hookah and pillow remaining. 

“Two-faced bitch.” A voice above you spits, and you look up to see a rather large and magnificent moth fluttering high above the mushroom. Its body is a deep blue, and its wings a striped black and white with a fluffy red base. You almost don’t realize that this is what has become of Val until you notice the large pink heart sunglasses over his compound eyes.

“You tell the Red Queen to fuck right off.” He buzzes furiously, and then with a single flap of his magnificent wings, he is gone over the tall grass and into the trees.

“Curiouser and Curiouser.” You mutter to yourself, heaving one leg over the lip of the mushroom. “At least he told me how to return to my proper size before he decided to fly off, or I would be in quite the predicament.”

You push the gold hookah and pillow off one edge of the giant mushroom, and then work to pry a thick piece from either side. You stare at the two nearly identical pieces, wondering which would cause you to grow and which to shrink, for Valentino had not specified which side was which.

You suppose that, should you eat the wrong one, you can always try the other piece, and this mushroom is quite large after all. With a shrug, you take a large bite of the right piece. The mushroom tastes most curiously like a lemon-meringue pie, not that you have ever had such a thing yourself, but you do know that it is quite delicious, and you take another several bites before you are quite sure which direction you are growing.

You feel a bit peculiar for a moment, and then, all at once, you shoot up and up and up like a beanstalk, until you think you are more than five feet tall. This, of course, is only half your natural height as an angel, but it is a wonderful step above a mere three inches. 

You notice, suddenly, that you are sitting on the ground instead of on the large mushroom, and you stand up, looking around for where the thing could have gone. You realize, after a moment, that you are quite larger now than you were a minute ago, and look down under your feet. To your dismay, you foolishly ate the pieces while still sitting on the mushroom, and now you have quite squished it beneath you in your sudden growth. The yellow thing is broken in many pieces and pressed in the mud, and presently it begins to fiz and wither away with a small puff of yellow smoke.

“Oh dear, now I’ve gone and ruined my only chance of growing to my proper height!” you exclaim, looking at the two rather small pieces of mushroom in the palm of each of your hands. “I had so wanted to return to my natural height, but I’m certain that I will encounter more strange growth spurts and un-spurts later on, perhaps it would be best to save these two pieces, just in case?”

You look around, but there is no one nearby to offer any advice, Val having flown quite off, and so you put the two pieces into the pockets of your apron, left to shrink right to grow, and resolve to set off once more into the forest.

After your encounter with Valentino, you had quite hoped that your time in this forest was done, after all, you reasoned that at this height you should make progress much faster than you could before. Once you have grown, you immediately set about looking for the path that had led you into the forest, and find the cleared dirt trail almost immediately, but it is not quite as you remember it.

At this height, the path is very narrow, and you can see that it branches and forks wildly, weaving in and around the trees and meandering off in every direction.

“Well, it doesn’t so much seem that I’ve lost the path, rather that the path has quite lost itself!” You exclaim, peering up into the trees at the signs which seem to have been tacked there at random. The signs point every which way, and are very unhelpful, saying things like “somewhere” or “nowhere” or “upwards” or “downwards.”

You wander a short ways, hoping perhaps that the path will pull itself together into something resembling sensible order, or at least that one of the signs might point you towards the palace, but the trail seems only to get more convoluted and the signs more impossible. 

“Oh, I shall never get anywhere like this,” You sigh, throwing your hands up in defeat.

“Why would you want to go anywhere?” A gravelly voice comes from behind you, startling you quite badly and causing you to whirl around in place looking for its source.

“Up here kid,” The voice comes again, and you glance up to see a very large very skinny cat lounging on a tree branch, holding a liquor bottle precariously in its front paw.

“Oh, well, I—well I mean, I was just—I’m a bit lost you see” You stammer, smoothing out your skirt anxiously and staring at the strange feline. The cat raises a single long eyebrow at you, its red tail swishing back and forth below the branch.

“Lost, eh? Yeah aren’t we all.” He says finally, and takes a worryingly long sip from his bottle. 

“Why, are you quite sure that is safe to be drinking?” You ask him tentatively.

“I hope it ain’t safe.” He mumbles around the bottle.

“Well, it’s just that, you’re a cat you see—” You try again, concerned for the dwindling level of liquor in the bottle.

“Aye!” The cat hisses at you, glaring down with an impressively dour face, “I ain’t just any old cat, alright. I’m a Cheshire cat, don’t fuckin’ forget it!” He draws himself up slightly, puffing out his emaciated chest fur, before finishing off the bottle and throwing it haphazardly over his shoulder.

“But, you aren’t smiling.” You remark, skeptical. “Aren’t Cheshire cats known to grin constantly?”

The cat glares at you and sits up, grooming one paw in contempt.

“I lost the ability to smile years ago.” He says, swishing his tail up across his body. It’s the most peculiar thing, but as his tail crosses him, he begins to disappear, as though his tail is a rag wiping him out of existence. In a panic, you dash towards the cat.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry mister Cheshire cat, really I am! Please don’t go!”

The tail pauses, then reverses until the cat is perched, whole, on the branch once more.

“Husker.” The cat grunts, and you blink.

“Pardon me?”

“My name. It’s Husker. People call me Husk. Not ‘Cheshire cat’” The cat sniffs and raises his paw, in which you are surprised to see a flask.

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you Husk,” You say, curtsying in your dress. Husk merely grunts in agreement and takes a deep drink from the flask, leaning back until it is quite draped over the branch in the most un-cat-like manner.

“Aren’t you going to ask my name?” You wonder, thinking Husk to be rather rude.

“Nope. Don’t care.” He says, licking the drops off of his long whiskers and swishing his red-tipped tail.

“Well, I never.” You say, a bit put out.

“Yeah right.” Husk responds, pouring the dark liquid from his flask into his mouth from arms-length.

“I beg your pardon?” You say.

“Never. You said you never, but I don’t buy that shit for a minute. Ain’t no one in this place give a flying fuck about ya name, you ain’t introduced yourself to anyone today.” The cat shrugs, shaking the flask for the last few drops it contains.

You are quite taken aback, for you realize that you have not, in fact, introduced yourself to anyone at all today, although they had all introduced themselves to you. How on earth had Husk known such a thing? Certainly not just by looking at you.

“I’m a bartender kid, I read people, and I can tell just from lookin’ at ya that you’re shit outta luck today.” Husker is looking at you upside-down, which, you think, makes his observation all the more impressive.

“Well, I admit, I am a bit lost.”

“No shit Sherlock.” Husk balances the empty flask on one claw, looking bored.

“Perhaps you could tell me which way to go?” You ask, folding your hands against your dress.

Husk looks at you for a long moment, then sighs, drops the flask into a bush, and laboriously stands up on the branch. He stretches for a long moment, tail bristling, and then, without warning, he leaps off the branch straight for you.

You yelp and raise your arms to protect yourself, but Husk seems to disappear mid leap, fading like mist, and all you feel is a slight breeze pass you.

“Jesus you’re jumpy, kid. You need to relax.” Husk’s gravel voice comes from behind you, and you spin to find him perched languidly in a new branch, stirring a whisky glass with a metal straw.

You wonder strongly at the glass and where he had gotten it, especially the ice. You realize you are quite thirsty.

“There’s a tea party.” Husk says.

“What?” you ask with a start.

“Over that way.” He points with the metal straw, and then licks the alcohol off of it and flings it away into the trees.

You spin around to look through the trees, and then turn back to ask Husk what sort of tea party takes place in the woods, only to find him quite gone.

“Tea party isn’t really my thing, but you seem like the squeaky-clean type.” You look up and realize that Husk has moved a few branches over, and seems to be holding his glass rather impossibly with his tail, “But fair warning, The Mad Hatter is a complete asshole.”

“The _Mad_ Hatter?” You ask, quite perturbed.

“You would probably like the March Hare though, she’s like you,” Husk waves his tail and the glass noncommittally, miraculously not spilling any of it, “all sparkly and shit, ya know?”

You certainly _don’t_ know, but the “March Hare” sounds superior to the “Mad Hatter” any day.

“Thank you, yes, I think I shall go see the March Hare then.”

“She’s nuts too though, fair warning.” Husk grunts, sipping from his glass loudly.

You whirl around, quite confused.

“Well I don’t want to go among mad people!” You say.

“Tough luck kiddo, we’re all mad here.” Husk grunts, finishing off the glass and setting it on the branch, “You should see me sober, complete fucking nutjob, seriously.”

“Well, couldn’t you just tell me how to get to the Palace?” You ask hopefully, but Husk just looks down at you with wide eyes.

“The Palace? Trust me kid, you _don’t_ want to go there. The Red Queen is the fucking psycho to end all psychos, seriously, that place will fuck you up. Stick with the tea party.” Husk gives himself a little shake, as though disturbed by the idea, and you notice that his body is looking rather transparent.

“Wait, but, there must be somewhere else that I can—” You try, but Husk cuts you off with a flick of his tail.

“Kid seriously, don’t fuck with the Palace” He says, just a frowning mouth and a voice now. And then, those too are gone and you are quite alone.

“Oh dear, is the palace really so terrible?” You wonder to yourself, “Perhaps I had been better to follow the White Rabbit after all.”

You resolve, eventually, to at least pass by the tea party. For, you reason, everything has been quite mad so far, even you yourself have been growing and shrinking like a regular madman, so you were best not to judge without seeing for yourself. That settled, you head off in the direction the Cheshire cat had indicated, down a winding path paved with uneven cobbles, when you find yourself suddenly spit out into a little glade in front of a little cottage.

The cottage itself seems quaint enough, but much to your surprise, in the front yard is set up a wonderfully long dining table crowded with teapots and cups and plates and piles of crumpets and everything one might need for a tea party. You are quite honestly surprised to see that Husk was right about the tea party in the woods, for the kettles are all steaming away, and at the far end of the table you can just make out a pair of figures through all the steam. 

Waving away the steam with one hand, you make your way over to the table, where a tall fellow in a towering pink hat, the hatter you suppose, is in an animated discussion with a smaller blonde hare with pink rosy cheeks. Between them sits a grumpy mouse, looking nearly asleep, leaning on one hand and blinking her one eye slowly. 

As you approach, the Hatter, who you see is a tall thin spider with fluffy pink-and-white fur poking out from under his tattered suit-jacket, points you out. The Hare notices you, and a broad sharp-toothed smile breaks out across her rosy face as she elbows the sleeping Dormouse awake. The Hare seems to wave you over, but the Hatter and the freshly awakened Dormouse immediately shoo you off.

“Ain’t no room toots, buzz off would ya?” The Hatter shouts.

“Yeah, no room, _ándale_ , get out of here,” The dormouse waves one hand at you, her whiskers twitching in annoyance.

“Hey, guys, come on…” The March Hare starts, but her companions are far too excited and they drown her voice quite out.

“What do you mean no room?” You ask, indignant, for the table is quite long and packed all round with a menagerie of chairs, “There more than enough room.” And then, just to make a point, you sit yourself in a rather plush armchair on the closest end of the table and cross your arms.

“What the fuck toots, I just said there’s no room, you deaf _and_ stupid?” The Hatter pushes himself up from his chair, strutting towards you.

“Who just sits at a table without being invited? Fucking rude.” The Dormouse comments, but seems to be slipping back into a disinterested state of half consciousness, as though the effort of driving you away would be too much.

“Hey, Vaggie, it’s fine, she can join us,” The March Hare says, patting the dormouse placatingly between her two round purple-gray ears. The Dormouse appears to hang on to her sour mood for a moment, before shrugging and laying her head back down.

“Whatever, it’s your call, but if she starts some shit I’ll chuck one of these tea pots at her head.” The Dormouse mumbles, and then appears to fall back asleep.

The Hatter, meanwhile, has reached your end of the table and begins to shoo you away from the chair with his upper set of hands, resting the lower set on his thin hips.

“Go on, scram. This ain’t a fuckin charity alright, no free tea, _capiche_?” You hop up and try to put the chair between you and the Hatter, who seems set on chasing you off.

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t be allowed, there is more than enough tea here for four people, certainly.” You chatter, circling the chair and avoiding the Hatter’s four grasping hands.

“Angel!” The Hare scurries up to the two of you and holds out her hands, long ears twitching anxiously, “It’s fine, this is _my_ tea party, she can sit if she wants to.”

The Hatter opens his mouth for a second, but seems to give up, shrugging in annoyance and pulling out a nearby chair.

“Just cause the party is at _your_ house don’t mean we should just let every little orphan Annie that wanders by get a seat,” He mutters, angrily pouring himself a cup from the nearest pot.

The March Hare, for her part, ignores the Hatter and instead seizes your hand, leading you back to the chair.

“Hi! I’m Charlie, that’s Angel, and Vaggie is over there sleeping, she isn’t much of a morning person,” The Hare babbles, spooning altogether too much sugar into a cup and passing it to you.

“Is it morning?” You ask, looking at the sun high overhead skeptically.

“Babe, when you’re this hungover, the whole day feels like morning,” The Hatter, Angel you suppose, laughs, and then pours a generous amount of something from a pink flask into his tea.

“My watch does say it’s morning,” Charlie replies, showing you a silver pocket watch.

“Why, that watch is stopped, it isn’t ticking at all!” You exclaim, looking at the thing in amusement.

“Of course it is, why would I need a watch when I have Vaggie!” Charlie turns and hollers across the table at the sleeping Dormouse, “Vaggie! What time is it?”

“Too fucking early” is the reply, muffled through the mouse’s crossed arms, and Charlie turns to you looking pleased.

You are entirely confused by this display, but before you can ask for clarification, Angel is reaching a long pink arm across you and snapping to get Charlie’s attention.

“Bunny, hey, pass me that sugar dish over there.” He gestures towards a delicate white china dish, the lid a mismatched pale blue.

“Angel, there’s a sugar dish right next to you,” Charlie says, but grabs the dish anyway and passes it over you, quite as though you aren’t there.

“Yeah, but this dish is where I put the _good sugar_ ,” Angel winks at you with one pink eye, and spoons a small pile of the white crystals onto his plate.

Charlie seems hardly to notice this, and continues chatting amiably.

“Oh it’s so nice to see someone else stop by. I always invite people to tea but they never come, well until Angel here, but he’s our first one,”

“I can’t imagine why, this is all so lovely,” You say politely, as Angel puts his face to his plate and makes a loud sniffing noise, coming up with white crystals dotting the fur on his face.

“Oh yeah, that’s the shit.” He says, leaning back in the chair.

“You really mean that?” Charlie nearly squeals, and you, having half-forgotten what you had said, turn to her blankly. Undeterred, Charlie sweeps you into a hug, pulling you quite off your chair.

“Oh, I’m so happy you like it, this tea party has been my dream for the longest time, you know.” You wonder at what a peculiar dream it is, to throw a tea party. But, then again, you suppose these three are demons, and perhaps tea parties are not so common amongst the demons as they are elsewhere, and throwing one really is a grand ambition.

“I need a fresh cup!” Angel declares, pushing his hat back on his head and standing with purpose, “Move down!”

Charlie giggles and grabs your hand, dragging you along after her as she shuffles three chair to her right and then sits again. You are sad to leave your tea, but Charlie has put far too much sugar in it anyways, so perhaps leaving it was not so bad after all.

“Aye, bunny,” Angel says flippantly as he searches through a pile of little fruit tarts for the best one, “You should have this broad tell us a story or somethin’, if she’s gonna freeload.”

You start a little at the jab but try to ignore it. Charlie seems to think the idea is fabulous, and looks at you eagerly.

You think of a few stories to tell, and nearly begin one, when you realize that perhaps the stories of an angel would be ill received in the company of demons.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know any stories.” You say, reaching out to take the tea cup that Angel offers you. You go to take a sip, only to realize the tea is filled with some kind of strong alcohol, enough to wrinkle your nose. Angel snickers at you when you put the cup aside.

“Oh, that’s ok, I’ll tell one!” Charlie perks up. “This is the story of the time I sang at the Palace!”

Angel groans and pics up the cup you just put aside, drinking it in one tremendous gulp. And muttering an annoyed “again.”

“The Palace is really beautiful, you know, although red isn’t really my color per say. My dad does love red though, so it’s not like I wasn’t used to it. Anyways, there was a lovely party at the palace, and I was having such a great time, and I am way better at expressing myself through song, naturally, so I started to sing,”

“In the middle of the party?” You ask, incredulous.

“Of course!” Charlie says, barely pausing before forging ahead, “It went a little something like this.

_Twinkle Twinkle little bat,_

_How I wonder what you’re at_

“Oh boy” Angel rolls his eyes and loudly slurps his tea.

“Are those really the words?” you wonder, mostly to yourself.

_Up above the world you fly_

_Like a tea-tray in the sky_

_Twinkle Twinkle—_

Charlie unexpectedly swings her arm in enthusiasm, and knocks a teapot off of the table where it shatters on the ground.

“Nice one Sinatra.” Angel cackles, nearly doubling over with laughter.

“Whoops! Got a little excited there. Oh well, clean cups!” Charlie declares, and then drags you up from your chair and away from the near perfect cup of tea you had just been squeezing a lemon into. She scurries some way down the table and then sets you down in the chair, Angel seats himself next to you and props his long legs up on the table, pushing the nearest kettle out of your reach. You are beginning to wonder if you will ever have any tea at this particular tea party.

“What do you do when you come round to the beginning of the table again?” You ask, wondering at the strange rotation of cups. Charlie, however, either ignores or doesn’t hear you.

“Now where was I?” She asks, pouring herself three separate cups of tea and heaping sugar into each. “Right, so anyways, there I am singing, when the Red Queen comes up and says—”

“RED QUEEN?” The name appears to violently wake Vaggie from her slumber, and she stands up from the table so quickly her chair overturns behind her, then climbs up onto the table itself “That pompous cheesy red shitlord? If I see that smiling two-faced fucker I swear to god I will beat the fucking red out of—” Vaggie marches straight down the center of the place settings, overturning steaming tea pots and knocking over little sandwich displays in her fury.

“Vaggie! Calm down, I’m just telling a story!” Charlie exclaims, long ears pressed flat to her head, “our guest was curious so I just—”

“Curious?” Vaggie exclaims, hopping down from the table in between you and the March Hare and pointing accusingly, “And just why are you so curious about the Red Queen, hmm? We don’t need that name around here, now get out, go on, get out of here, _rapidamente!”_ Vaggie picks up one of the broken tea cups and waves it threateningly in your direction.

Charlie looks apologetically over her shoulder, but doesn’t seem inclined to stop the raging Dormouse, and Angel seems to find the whole situation inordinately funny, and is laughing so hard his hat has tipped quite nearly off his head.

With a huff, you push yourself up from your chair.

“Now I don’t at all see what all the fuss about the Red Queen is about, I don’t think—”

“Then you shouldn’t talk, should you?” Vaggie retorts, and you snap your mouth shut. You are very nearly about to march out yourself when a sudden commotion at the far end of the table pulls everyone’s attention.

“Oh man, oh man, I’m so darn late. Oh man, oh gosh.” The familiar high-pitched voice of the White Rabbit grabs your attention, and you see the figure, now only slightly smaller than you yourself, hop into the clearing. She appears to be compulsively checking the time, but when she does look up she goes practically white as a sheet.

“Oh my gosh this is _terrible!_ ” She squeaks, rushing over to the table. “Nope, nope, nope, oh man this place is a mess, wow, really needs a lady’s touch!” She pokes her head over the far end of the table, glancing at all of you as she plucks shards of broken china from the tablecloth, and then adds, “no offense.”

Charlie practically combusts into enthusiasm when she spots the little figure, and zips over to her.

“This is _amazing_ , two guests in one morning!” she reaches down and attempts to swoop the nervous rabbit into her arms, but the little white figure darts away.

“Woah, hey there, no touching ok, I just had this dry cleaned and man oh man would it be embarrassing to show up to work with jam on my collar!” The White Rabbit’s little pink eyes dart right and left as it takes in the mess of the table, “Ooooh boy you ladies really need some help, wow”

You glance over at The Mad Hatter, whom you are quite certain is a man, but he seems unphased, and instead pops a third strawberry tart into his mouth.

“Didn’t you say you was late for something, whiskers?” Angel asks absently, licking the syrup off of his fingers.

“Oh my _gosh_ you’re right, oh man, I don’t have time to do a full clean, I’ll just have to make this quick.” The rabbit seems to blur and then disappear from your vision with how quickly she darts around the table. You can’t very well follow her with your eyes, but the frequent clatter of plates and the steadily growing trash bag indicate that she is indeed there. Within seconds, the table has been set and reordered, the broken china removed, and the scattered food swept away. Even the jagged shard of cup Vaggie had been wielding moments before is replaced with a full steaming cup of tea.

The White Rabbit darts up to Charlie and drops the over-full trash bag into her arms.

“Here, throw this out for me, ok? I’m way late, super late, I need to go!” And then the little demon is darting off across the lawn, little white tail bobbing after her.

You had quite given up your hunt for the rabbit after her rudeness at the cottage earlier, but you find that the strangeness of this tea party and the suddenness of the rabbits arrival and departure wipe away your previous change of heart, and before you know it you are running after the little white tail and pink poodle skirt.

“Goodbye Charlie, thank you for the tea!” You call over your shoulder, although really you hadn’t had any tea at all.

“Come back soon!” Charlie calls after you, and then you are gone, out the little white gate at the edge of the garden and back into the forest, chasing the white rabbit into the gloom.

You manage to keep pace with the rabbit for quite a ways, although you have to give up on calling after her to save your breath. Even so, however, you do eventually lose sight of her little white ears in the gloom, and are left simply following in the direction she seemed to be headed. She had left the path quite immediately after the tea party, and you had followed her without thinking, and now you find yourself quite a bit deeper in the forest than you had been before, and without and real sense of where you are. 

Determined not to lose your way again, you push on into the darkness, trying to remember where the rabbit had gone until you are quite turned around and thoroughly lost. The trees are all curved in the most frightening of ways, leaning towards you with menace, snagging at your skirt and pricking at your skin when you get to close. And the fog seems to have returned, but with a certain cloying thickness that makes you dizzy with the weight of it in your lungs.

You continuously think that you can see a sign posted on a tree just up ahead, but each time, when you reach it, it’s just a strange branch or large insect. Growing more and more desperate, you run faster and faster, whipping through the brambles and pushing aside low-hanging boughs, but finding yourself only deeper and deeper in the intractable darkness and mist.

Finally, your foot catches on a fallen tree and you lose your balance, tumbling over and over before coming to a stop at the base of a large and quite dead oak tree. All day you had been trying our hardest not to cry, even when you were lost or confused or when all the strange demons in this place were cruel to you, but here, dirty and tangled up in the fallen leaves and twigs, you can’t seem to hold it in anymore, and you are sobbing.

You cry and cry and cry, sitting there on the ground in the leaves, and keep on crying, knowing that it will get you nowhere but not knowing what else to do.

“Oh I’ll never go off chasing some silly rabbit ever again! I just wish I could go home!” You exclaim, wiping a fresh bout of tears from your face with the collar of your dress.

“Yeah, I don’t really think that’s an option kid.” A familiar gruff voice comes from over your head. 

You look up in surprise and are met with the persistent frown of the Cheshire cat, lounging on the central fork in the tree, looking down upon you.

“Oh Husk, it’s you! Oh how glad I am to see someone in this dreadful place!” You exclaim, pushing yourself up unsteadily and trying to dust the leaves off of your dress.

“Wow, ‘someone,’ I feel real special kid.” Husker rolls his eyes and lashes his tail, “and quit cryin' would ‘ya, you’re stressing me out.”

“Oh, but Husk, I just want to go home and I—I can’t find my way.” You sniff and try your hardest not to burst into tears all over again.

“You ain’t got a way, kid, that’s the long and short of it.” Husk shrugs, and leans his head against the tree. “That’s just how it is here, it ain’t a place ya just walk out of, ya know?”

You shake your head because truly, you don’t know, as you aren’t even sure where you are just now, or why you shouldn’t be able to leave. You don’t realize that you are crying again until the tears land on your hands where they are knotted in your skirt.

“Oh come on kid, don’t fuckin' start with the tears again.” Husk tries to deter you, but now that you’ve started you can’t very well stop just like that, and so you go right on crying.

Husk shifts uncomfortably on the tree, his long red eyebrows bunched together.

“Look, kid, if you really want out of here you’re gonna need help. Powerful help if ya know what I’m saying.”

You sniff and look up at Husk.

“The Red Queen?” You ask, unsure.

“Yeah but, shit, kid, you’re better off just stayin’ here, seriously. The monarchy is fucked.” He shrugs, his frown deepening.

You shake your head vigorously.

“I want to go home Husk, if there’s any chance that this Queen could help me, then I need to take it! Please tell me how to get to the palace.” You step towards the tree, looking imploringly up at the skinny cat.

Husk licks his lips, hesitating.

“Fuck it. You’re not my goddamn responsibility, but don’t say I didn’t warn you, ‘cause this is a stupid fucking idea.” Husk’s long tail flicks above him, wrapping around a long-dead tree branch and pulling it down until it clicks. In front of you, the trunk of the oak tree seems to dissolve into an archway, opening onto a sunny path with a tall red spire just visible in the distance.

Curious, you take a step towards the arch, and then another, and then one quite through the space and onto the soft grass beyond. You keep going until you are standing in the open sunlight, and then glance behind you at the strange door still shimmering in the air. Through it sits Husk, eyebrows drawn, tail swishing back and forth, lean and anxious. You smile and wave at him.

“Mind your head,” He says gruffly, and then the doorway is gone and you are alone on the bright sunlit path.

You find that the cheery hedge-lined path does not lead you so immediately to the red spire as you had hoped. Instead, the path twists and forks, weaving back and forth chaotically. It is not until you find yourself faced with a dead end that you realize you must be in some sort of vast hedge maze.

You are a bit frustrated at your continued difficulties, but you remind yourself that this sunny hedge maze is a great measure better than the dark and cold forest.

After a good deal of time navigating the hedge maze, you become dimly aware of a soft tune filtering towards you through the leaves. You can faintly hear voices, singing along to a jazzy melody, and so you try your best in such a confusing place to point yourself towards the noise. Your progress is slow at first, as the maze seems determined to route you away from the singing, but eventually you poke your head around a little hedge archway and see a very peculiar sight.

Past the archway is a small open area, dotted with rose tress. Clustered around one tree, gripping a small wooden stepladder, stands a trio of strange shadowy figures. You think at first that the group are dressed all in black like cat burglars, but you realize with a start that they instead seemed to be made out of shadows, rising up out of the manicured grass like strange dark specters. You would, perhaps, have been more frightened of the shadowy figures, were they not frantically brushing red paint across the white roses dotting the tree and singing.

_Painting the roses red_

_We’re painting the roses red_

_We dare not stop lest the Queen chop_

_and separate our heads_

“How very macabre!” you think to yourself, and yet the tune is wonderfully catchy and upbeat, in spite of its concerning lyrics, and you find yourself tapping along.

The shadows go on slapping the paint on the roses, haphazardly making them red, before shuffling along to the next tree and repeating the process.

“Pardon me!” you call after a moment of watching. The shadows glance over to you when you speak, but don’t stop their work for even a second, frantically painting.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I must know, why are you painting the roses red?” The largest shadow, with two towering black horns atop his head and large empty white eyes, turns towards you slightly as he paints.

“The Queen likes ‘em red, ‘an we buggered it all up by plantin’ ‘em white. If the Red Queen sees, it’ll be our ‘eads.” The shadow shakes its head forlornly, and its compatriots all let out long sighs. 

“Why, let me help!” You exclaim, feeling awfully sorry for these poor little shadows. You pluck a brush from the paint can and trot after the trio towards the next tree, and begin painting the roses with them.

_Painting the roses red_

_We’re painting the roses red_

_For if they see, we cannot flee_

_And certainly end up dead_

You have barely finished your first rose tree when you hear a peculiar sort of horn, rather like a long saxophone, and the shadows go all a-tremble, dropping their brushes onto the grass.

“The Queen!” one of them says, and the three of them burst into frenzied motion, stuffing the paint brushes into gaps in the hedge and lobbing the paint can into the next row. Of course, all four of you are rather splashed with the red paint, but perhaps they hope that with the tools gone no one will notice.

A retinue of shadows enters the courtyard in a state of odd disarray. Rather than an ordered march of guard as you expect, the shadows enter rather more like a parade, with a full brass band playing on top of a large colorful moat, and other shadows dancing below in colorful masks, tossing strings of rainbow beads back and forth.

The whole affair seems to you more like a party or parade than the entrance of a monarch, but the three shadows you had been painting with appear cowed, and throw themselves face down on the ground.

“Ah, I do so love Mardi Gras.” A voice comes from behind you, unfamiliar and pitched with a strange sort of buzzing distortion that reminds you vaguely of the Caterpillar. You spin on your heel, and see a tall man in an opulent red waistcoat, sporting a large red and gold crown. Two large fluffy red ears stand next to the crown, and you can just see the tips of two small black antlers. The man smiles at you with the sharpest grin you have seen yet, and a peculiar prickling sensation crawls up and down your arms.

“I, of course, wanted the best festivities for our guest, I do so hope you enjoyed the parade.” The man sashays forwards, bending down to look at you, and then wipes a smear of red paint off of your cheek with one sharp thumb. “It’s been so terribly long since anyone has come in through the hedge maze, I quite forgot that door was there, what a surprise you are darling!” He exclaims, and then straightens, steps past you, and moves to stand over the three cowering shadows.

“Now, perhaps you three would care to share what you have been doing all morning?” He asks, venomously, casting a long shadow himself that seems poised to swallow the smaller three.

“Please, your majesty” One of the shadows starts, but the tall man silences him with a click of his tongue.

“You know, of course, that there is a much simpler way to turn white roses red.” He says carelessly, and the three shadows glance up in a mixture of horror and hopefulness, “Yes it’s quite simple really, red paint is so _tedious_ for such a task. Stand up now, I’ll enlighten you.” He waves his hand impatiently, and the three shadows scramble to their feet, fidgeting nervously. 

The tall man looks at them, and then his grin grows, almost impossibly, until you can see putrid black gums behind his pale corpse lips. He raises a single gloved hand and snaps, and you watch in shock as his own shadow rises from the grass with a twisted copy of its masters own hungry grin. He tips his head, considering this towering shadow for a moment, and then waves one hand casually towards the other three.

“Off with their heads.” He says. You move to protest, but before you can make even a sound, the tall shadow has opened its mouth to reveal a vast, impossibly dark maw. The smaller shadows panic, try to run, but the larger one is too quick, and with one tremendous bite, it rips the heads from all three, chewing with a sickening crunching noise. The three collapse, bleeding in a stark red that doesn’t at all match their dark bodies. 

As you watch, the blood sinks into the ground, swallowed up by some invisible force, and then, to your horror, the roses start to bloom red, the color seeping out from their centers to cover the entire flower in a horrible sanguine tone.

“There, you see, quite simple!” The man exclaims, holding out his arms theatrically. His shadowy retinue applauds dutifully, and he even gives a small bow to the crowd.

You realize that Husk had been entirely right about the palace, it was absolutely no place for you. But, the again, you do desperately want to get _back_ , to go _home_ , and perhaps the Red Queen is the only one who can help you.

And this tall man must be just that monarch.

“You’re the Red Queen?” You ask with a squeak, your voice seems to have not yet recovered from the shock.

The tall man turns to you, waves his hand in the air and materializes a long cane with a bright red microphone head, before bowing low with a flourish.

“Guilty as charged Darling, but please, do call me Alastor.” He straightens and fluffs his hair, watching you.

“But—” You stammer, still reeling to catch up with everything, “You’re a man.”

Alastor blinks and then laughs lightly.

“Why, yes, I believe I am.”

“But, Queens are meant to be women, aren’t they?” You ask, which only seems to tickle Alastor even more.

“Why, darling, I make the rules here. The Red Queen isn’t meant to be _anything_ but _me_. What an ignorant little creature you are!” He exclaims, scooping up one of your hands and twirling you in place.

“O-of course your Majesty, please excuse me. I’ve had a rather strange day and I’m not quite myself you see.” You feel oddly intimidated by the Queen’s persistent smile, but are determined to petition his help.

Alastor struts around you rather like a wolf, inspecting you curiously.

“Why yes, you are a strange one aren’t you. And to come to my court dressed in such rags.” Alastor makes a _tsk_ sound with his tongue, lifting he corner of your dress with the edge of his microphone. You swat the thing away and pat your dress defensively. Certainly, it is rather worse for wear, but this dress had seen you through much, and grown and shrunk with you throughout it all, you are loathe to have it insulted for any reason.

And then Alastor is behind you, lifting a piece of your hair in one long claw, and you are batting him away again, feeling rather like a piece of meat.

“Well, I’m sorry your majesty, but I didn’t expect—"

“Clearly you didn’t, or I assume you would have at least brushed your hair!” Alastor twirls his microphone idly, coming to a stop in front of you and looking thoughtful, “No this won’t do at all, but I believe I have just the thing!”

He raises his gloved hand and snaps his fingers once again. You flinch, expecting his shadow to rematerialize, but instead you feel a rather strange prickling sensation, and then something brushing against your legs. You look down, and are surprised to find yourself in an entirely different outfit, a gauzy red dress covered in delicate sequins. You touch your hair, and find that it has been curled into tight ringlets, pinned with an elastic headband fitted around your horns.

“Why, it’s lovely,” You say in genuine surprise, “Thank you your Majesty.”

“Please darling, just Alastor.” He corrects as he sweeps you under his arm and around to face the gathered shadows. You pull away from his side, nearly freeing yourself when he swings you around in front of him with a twirl.

“Do you like games darling? I am rather partial to croquet myself, do you play?” He asks brightly, twirling you back into his arms and then out again dizzyingly.

“I-well, I suppose I could—” You stutter, trying to catch your balance

“Phenomenal!” he sends you spinning off, and claps his hands. The shadows part, and to your shock, out emerges the white rabbit, pink poodle skirt, single eye, and all.

“Why, it’s the White Rabbit!” you exclaim in spite of yourself.

“What, this little darling? This is Niffty! She manages the estate, devil of a good coordinator, quite tidy,” Alastor says, and the rabbit, Niffty, preens visibly at the praise, “Niffty dear, are the croquet courts ready?” Alastor asks. 

Niffty nods rapidly, and Alastor claps his hands again.

“Splendid, well come along sweetheart, the game awaits!”

You feel exceedingly off-kilter, everything here seems to be moving much more quickly than you are used to, you must try to gain some measure of control over things.

“Actually, your Majesty—” Alastor’s smile grows visibly tense and you stutter, “I-I mean Alastor. I was rather hoping you could help me with something.” You smile as best you can.

“Me?” Alastor looks an awful sort of excited by this idea, and you have a strong pang of apprehension.

“It’s far too late to give up now, this is your only way!” You tell yourself, and then aloud to Alastor, “Yes, well, you see, I am rather lost, and I would very much like to return home, if I could.”

“Ah, I see.” Alastor says, beginning to circle you again. You think that his smile has become distinctly hungry, “that is quite unfortunate dearest, and I would love to help,” You look up, smiling hopefully at the taller man, but he silences you with a hand, “but I must know what I would gain out of such an arrangement.”

You deflate, thinking of the Caterpillar and his unsettling demands, and look up at Alastor helplessly.

“Oh darling, I know just the thing. If you agree to play this bought of croquet through with me, then I shall do my best to get you back from where you came, does that sound quite fair?” Alastor bends slightly towards you, his tall ears twitching slightly. 

You think on this for a moment, suspicious of its apparent simplicity, but can’t think of a way in which such a simple exchange could possibly be unfair. Reluctant, but eager to be on your way, you nod towards Alastor, who extends his hand to you.

“It’s a deal then?” He asks, and you clasp his hand.

“It’s a deal.”

You had thought yourself somewhat familiar with the basic rules of the game of croquet. You had never played yourself, but you had seen it played on earth, and it all seemed simple enough, but this game of croquet is entirely unlike any you have seen before. You have been confident at first, for the wickets looked normal, but when Alastor walks casually to a basket and plucks a _live flamingo_ from its depths to use as a mallet, you begin to lose hope. By the time Niffty has brought out two croquet balls, which appear to be two live technicolor hedgehogs, you are completely baffled.

The course itself if equally as confusing, the whole thing being placed on the top of a rather large rock, with each wicket being placed in little grooves and divots and hillocks so that you can’t imagine how anyone could be expected to get the ball—hedgehog—through them.

Alastor offers to let you go first, but considering you are entirely unsure how to use a flamingo as a croquet mallet, you insist that he go ahead of you.

“Oh and darling” Alastor tosses over his shoulder, swinging his flamingo by its ankles, “If you have any questions at all about the game, I had the rule book brought out, it’s just over there,” He gestures vaguely to the right, “Near the refreshments. Feel free to help yourself of course, only _don’t_ touch the royal tarts.”

Alastor looks back towards you, over one shoulder, flashing the edge of his threatening smile, and you pale. You didn’t intend to eat anyways, for everything you _have_ eaten so far seems to have drastically affected your body, which could complicate your croquet plans. You nod furiously at Alastor, who’s smile seems to grow a fraction less bloodthirsty as he turns back to the course.

You glance towards where Alastor had indicated and see an absurdly large book placed on a wooden pedestal. You hadn’t realized croquet was such a complex game. Near the book is a sprawling display of food and drink, including a towering stack of what can only be royal tarts. Your stomach grumbles loudly at the sight.

“Ah, I shan’t fall for that. Nothing I have eaten here so far has quite agreed with me, so I’d best not take any chances.” You tell yourself smartly, resolving not to have any more growing or shrinking while you can help it.

You hear a soft thump and a strangled sort of a squawk, and turn to see Alastor leaning the flamingo against his shoulder and looking downfield with a hand shielding his eyes. The flamingo holds a wing to its head, and you think you can perhaps see a few quills poking out above its beak.

The hedgehog comes to a brief stop near the first wicket, and the shadows clap loudly while Alastor bows.

“Your turn darling!” He says brightly, handing his injured flamingo off to a nearby shadow, “Go on now, don’t be shy, although I must warn you I am rather gifted at croquet. But do your best darling,” He smiles brightly, and a nearby shadow offers you a quivering flamingo while another places a hedgehog at the starting line.

“Oh dear,” You think, “I don’t want to injure the poor thing,”

The flamingo looks at you pleadingly, and you resolve to do something, although you aren’t entirely sure what. Perhaps if you miss the hedgehog entirely…

At the starting line, you square yourself theatrically, inspecting the field seriously and taking a few practice swings with your bird, before making one tremendous attempt at the hedgehog, and missing spectacularly. The shadows burst into derisive laughter, while you try your best to look embarrassed as you head off towards the sidelines.

“Oh darling, that was awful. You did say you knew how to play,” Alastor’s low voice comes from behind you, and he places a single long-fingered hand on your shoulder, “Which naturally, would mean that you know that _missing_ a shot does not at all end your turn.” Alastor’s grip tightens on your shoulder ever so slightly, “You did agree to play now darling, you wouldn’t want to _go back on your word_.”

Alastor’s voice lowers, and a peculiar buzzing static fills your ears and prickles at your skin. Silly as it should have been, you find yourself inexplicably frightened by the sensation, and unwilling to resist as the man guides you back to the starting point and plants you before your unmoved hedgehog.

“I must think of something!” You tell yourself, watching your flamingo gulp visibly.

You glance back towards the crowd, and your gaze lands on the refreshments table as a thoroughly mischievous idea pops into your head.

“I couldn’t help but notice, Your Majes-Alastor, that your royal tarts are simply lovely”

Alastor straightens slightly, a motion which would seem impossible given his immaculate posture.

“They are aren’t they? I’ll let you in on a secret darling, but I made them myself, I am quite the epicurean.”

“Excellent!” you think to yourself, and then add aloud, “It’s such a shame that the top one appears to be missing.”

“ _Missing?”_

There is a piercing sound that makes you flinch, and Alastor seems to disappear from your side and reappear at the table, his back to you, frantically inspecting his tower of tarts. While he is distracted, you nudge your foot under your hedgehog and give it a shove, sending it a short ways down the field.

“Darling, your eyes appear to be as poor as your croquet playing,” Alastor laughs, sounding quite relieved, “There’s nothing wrong with these tarts—” He turns to you and pauses, watching your hedgehog roll to a stop just ahead of his own.

You smile, and set your flamingo against your shoulder as he had. Alastor blinks once, and then he’s back beside you and applauding politely.

“Excellently played darling, this is proving to be an _interesting_ game after all.” His voice is low, almost whispered, and then he is calling for his “mallet,” leaving you to scurry away.

“What an awfully frightening man.” You say to yourself, standing near the refreshments.

“Hey, don’t say I didn’t warn ya’ kid” A gruff voice comes from just over your shoulder, and you spin to see the Cheshire cat floating lazily in the air over the table.

“Why, Husk! What are you doing here.” You exclaim, glancing around to see if anyone has noticed you.

“Just thought I’d check in, how are you getting on with his _majesty,”_ Husk nearly spits the title, resting his head in one paw.

“He seems awfully fond of beheading people, it’s a wonder anyone has any heads at all.” You say, feeling rather nervous, and watching as Alastor takes his next turn, “Also I’m not terribly sure how to play croquet.”

Husk laughs at this, which you find rather discouraging.

“Yeah, I was never one for this court shit either, just don’t make any deals with him and you’ll be fine.”

“Deals?” You ask, blanching slightly. The shadows have all gathered round Alastor in cheer, and he seems to be enjoying the attention, “I believe you may be a touch late on that particular issue.”

“Aw, kid, come on, ya didn’t?”

You turn to Husk, who is still floating lazily in the air, and appears to be munching absently on something from the snack table. When he sees your face he groans loudly.

“Christ, kid, it’s like you _want_ to fuck yourself over. Look, just, whatever you do make sure that—” Husker’s eyes fix on something behind you, “Shit,” And then he’s gone without even a puff of smoke.

You turn to see what had so frightened your friend, and come face to face with Alastor.

“Oh, pardon me.” You say, and try to step back only to bump into the table.

“Who are you talking to my dear?” Alastor peers down at you.

“No one.” You exclaim, perhaps a bit to quickly.

“No one at all? You shouldn’t make a habit of talking to yourself my dear, people might think you’ve gone mad.” Alastor laughs, and a moment later the shadows do to. You laugh along, rather awkwardly, wishing that you could get out from between Alastor and the sharp edge of the table.

Then, in much the same way Husk had, Alastor looks to something behind you and his grin stiffens, and then falls. The expression is only for a moment, so quick you almost miss it, but that smile evaporates for one terrible second. When you blink his smile has returned sharp and hungry.

Startled, you glance behind you, and find the pristine stack of royal tarts in disarray. It looks as though someone had disrupted the whole pile looking for the best one, and the whole table is littered with crumbs. You recall Husk idly eating something, and your face goes white.

“Darling,” Alastor croons, sounding sickly sweet. A long nail presses into your cheek, turning your head to face his, “Did you eat my tarts?”

You shake your head nervously, feeling Alastor’s sharp nail dig into your skin painfully.

“No? Well, dear, there is no one else here, so if you didn’t eat them you must have at least seen who did.”

You consider pointing the finger at Husk, but blaming an evaporating cat seems almost less believable than claiming ignorance, so you settle for shaking your head.

“Nothing?” Alastor’s hand grips your face harder, and you decide that Husk had been entirely right in steering you away from this castle. “someone must have eaten them darling, if not you than who?” 

You aren’t at all certain how the debate over the tarts had come to a trial, but you are oddly not at all startled to find that Alastor has a dedicated courtroom in his castle. Neither are you surprised when he seats himself behind the judges stand in a towering white wig and dark gown.

You do, however, giggle, just a bit. 

“Shhh!” Niffty hisses, from her position in front of you. Alastor had been kind enough to assign you council for your trial, but you do lack some confidence in the ability of the little rabbit to stay focused.

“Order!” Alastor calls, cracking a large red hammer against his stand and glaring out to the jury box, which has been filled with shadows.

He looks expectantly to Niffty, who shuffles her papers self-consciously and clears her throat.

“Um, the, uh, the defense would like to call The Mad Hatter to the stand!” She squeaks out, straightening her skirt.

The doors in the back of the court open dramatically, and you turn to see the pink-capped Angel strut into the courtroom, looking quite confident. Angel approaches the stand, turns, poses, walks halfway back, poses again, before finally returning to the stand and sitting himself primly on the witness stand and fluffing his chest purposefully. You move to applaud the show, but stop when the rest of the room remains silent and clear your throat self-consciously, although you don’t see why you shouldn’t have a bit of fun, everything being so mad as it is.

“Mr. Hatter, what do you know about this terrible crime?” Nifty asks, reading directly from a small pink cue card.

“Look, all I’m saying is the coke was in the sugar dish before I touched it, I don’t know nothing ‘bout how it got there,” Angel starts, leaning back in the chair and propping one foot on the witness stand.

“No, about the—” Niffty attempts to cut in, but Angel continues undeterred.

“And I don’t know nothing ‘bout those mushrooms in the tea neither. That shit has always been like that, s’ not my fault Vaggie tripped balls that one time” He chatters, seeming altogether insensible to the little rabbit waving her hand anxiously just below him.

“Um, excuse me—” Niffty is growing rather pink in the face, her long white ears twitching.

“And the guns in my house was there when I moved in, I’m tellin’ ya, and anything or anyone buried in the back, the house is old, ‘ya know, it was old when I bought it, so I dunno what kind of crazy shit went on there before—”

“Mister Hatter,” Alastor says politely, and Angel turns to him and smiles widely, looking as though he hadn’t noticed him there until just then.

“Oooh a monarch, you know I know a thing or two about queens.” Angel winks and Alastor’s eye twitches slightly, “And I do love a man in a wig, you busy after this _your honor_ ” Angel purrs as he leans over towards Alastor, who appears to be blushing.

You sigh heavily and lean on your hand. Certainly everything has been mad thus far, you had been foolish to expect anything but madness from this so-called court. You glance over at the White Rabbit, who appears to be blushing slightly, her eyes glued to the scene unfolding on the judge’s stand as Angel attempts to climb on top of Alastor’s desk.

“Niffty!” Alastor says with a start, shaking himself slightly. Niffty jumps and wipes her face.

“Yessir!” She squeaks and shuffles her papers, “Um, next witness is the, um, twins Tweedledum and Tweedledee.”

You watch Angel blow a kiss to an obviously uncomfortable Alastor and walk past you towards the audience where Charlie appears to be waving him over. Charlie shoots you a thumbs up as Angel sits down, and you wave sheepishly, wondering if court hearings were always such lively events here. You do recall that Vaggie had been none too keen on the Red Queen, but thankfully she seems to be quite asleep in her chair.

“You!” a shout comes from the back of the room, drawing your attention. Tweedledum and Tweedledee have come through the back doors, but on sighting Alastor, the snake-like twin rears back and points in accusation. You can’t help but sigh dramatically, wondering just where this fiasco is going now.

Alastor, still seeming vaguely uncomfortable, merely raises an eyebrow at the serpent and says nothing.

“Yes, you, the red freak! My old nemesis!” The snake chimes, and everyone, twin included, leans back skeptically.

“Do I know you?” Alastor says, looking supremely unconcerned.

“Oh ho ho, play ignorant if you wish sir, but today you meet your demise!” You suddenly remember the snake-twin’s name, Sir Pentious, just in time for him to launch himself clear over your chair and onto the judge’s stand. Alastor swats him away carelessly, but the outburst succeeds in throwing the court into chaos, further facilitated by Cherri Bomb unleashing a handful of small explosives. The ensuing scrap sees the White Rabbit wielding a giant sewing needle as she fences against the surly Dormouse, while the March Hare tries to break the fight up. The Hatter and Tweedledee seem to be fighting back to back against a random assortment of shadows, and on the judges stand, Alastor proceeds to carelessly beat the tar out of Tweedledum.

You, personally, who have been growing increasingly annoyed with the progression of this sham-trial, find yourself more bothered than frightened by the sudden violence. 

“That’s it,” you think to yourself, “I am quite done humoring this absolutely mad place.”

You set your hands resolutely on your legs to stand, when you feel two lumps in your pockets. Reaching in, you produce the two fragments of the mushroom, each about half the size to your palm.

“Well, here is the solution to my dilemma,” you declare, “but, then, which was to grow and which was to shrink?” In all the excitement, you had quite forgotten which side was which, and you try desperately to remember.

Unfortunately, before you can decide, the surrounding brawl finally notices your presence, and a battalion of shadows break off from the rest and rush towards you, wielding dark glittering spears. In a panic, you shove both pieces into your mouth and chew frantically, thinking that whichever you do, grow or shrink, you should at least be better off than you are now.

For a frightening moment you feel nothing at all, and you raise your arms against the advancing shadows in fear, but then the shadows are shrinking away from you as you grow. And grow and grow, and go right on growing until your horns are pressed up against the high ceiling of the courtroom and the brawl below you has frozen in shock.

“Damn” You hear Angel say with a low whistle, and then the shadows seem to remember their place and leap on you.

“Oh, shoo you pesky things!” you say, and wave them away like so many buzzing flies, turning your attention to the crowd, “you should all be ashamed, brawling in a courtroom. I haven’t attended many court proceedings but this is clearly absurd.”

Then, you turn your attention to the judge’s stand, where Alastor has a squirming Sir Pentious pinned lazily with his microphone, his wig forgotten on the table, smiling up at you.

“And _you,”_ you boom, pointing accusingly at the monarch, “How dare you assault a witness! And this whole court, why it’s a mockery of a trial. What sort of queen are you anyways? Lopping off heads and playing croquet with poor innocent flamingos and terrifying your subjects. Why, you aren’t a ruler at all, you’re just a big bully!” You are feeling quite righteous, and rather engrossed in your speech, so much that you don’t notice that you have begun to shrink until you are back to your diminutive height, below Alastor, who is looking supremely amused.

“Hmmm, no ruler at all?” He asks, putting a long finger to his chin in mock thought, “Then I suppose nothing would happen if I were to say _off with her head?”_

You don’t wait to see the court’s reaction to his order, instead you duck your head and leap straight off the platform and dash for the side door. Shadows leap at you from each side, even seeming to fall from above, but you don’t stop, bursting through the door and racing through the palace halls. Shadows seem to ooze from the very walls, appearing in your path and doing their very best to trip and trap you, but you slip through their dark hands and continue running until you come to the main doors and out into the evening sunlight.

You pause, panting, for a brief moment, trying to decide where to go. You spot the hedge maze, and don’t take time to think before dashing towards the entrance and getting yourself thoroughly lost.

You feel as though you run forever, and the sunlight gets dimmer and dimmer as you race through the maze, the shouts of the shadows and the demons of the courtroom fading behind you. Finally, exhausted, you collapse under a rose tree, trying to catch your breath, feeling thoroughly exhausted.

Something drips on your cheek, and when you wipe it off, your hand has a smear of red paint on it. You laugh, looking up into the sloppily painted tree, and then you are crying, the tears running red in the paint on your face.

“Really, painting the roses was just silly.” Alastor’s voice startles you, and you jump to your feet. He is standing a few paces away, no longer wearing his judge’s costume, studying the tree with a thoughtful look. He is between you and the only nearby gap in the hedges, and you feel your will to run melting out of you. You didn’t hear him come up, but then again, Alastor has been popping in and out all day long you have hardly been able to keep track at all.

“I thought it was rather sweet,” you say, wiping your face with a great sniff.

Alastor makes a noise in his throat that sounds thoroughly unimpressed. You think perhaps that you could distract him and run back into the mase, but the idea seems rather silly at this point. If he had followed you here, he could doubtless follow you further. And all you had wanted to do was to return home. You wonder why everything has become so terribly complicated, when your goal had been so simple.

“You have cheated me darling, you know,” Alastor says, pulling you out of your thought and tilting his head slightly towards you without actually turning your way, “you didn’t finish our game of croquet, I do believe the terms of our deal were to ‘play the game through’” Alastor hums thoughtfully.

You sit heavily on the ground, giving up on trying to stem the flow of your tears and feeling rather sorry for yourself. If he is really concerned with the terms of your deal, you suppose that that is a good bit better than sending his shadows to remove your head. You smile in spite of yourself, although you must look a sight with the paint and tears on your face.

“Well, then I forfeit. That should end the game, shouldn’t it?” You say with a wry smile.

Alastor says nothing for a moment, and then laughs.

“I suppose that would end the game. A shame though, this has all been so interesting.” He finally tuns to you, looking a degree less deranged than he had until this point. He saunters over to you, then crouches, looking at your face with a sort of detached curiosity. Feeling self-conscious, you wipe at your tears again. Alastor’s ears twitch.

“Well, I must hold up my end of the bargain, I suppose. So darling, you wanted to return home I believe, where is home?” He asks after a moment of contemplation.

“Heaven” You say immediately, though part of you suspects this all to be a trick.

“Heaven?” He repeats, then pauses, as though waiting for you to say something else. When you say nothing, he barks out a laugh, “You silly girl, you cannot return to heaven from here, even I can’t make that happen.” He chuckles, and you feel your tears redouble.

“Cannot return?” you repeat. Somewhere, part of you has always known that you could not go back, that once you had left there was no path backwards. After all, how was one to reverse a fall without wings, and you seem to have misplaced yours. But, to hear it spoken aloud does sting like a slap to the face.

You let out a very loud sob and cover your face, no doubt smearing paint and snot all over the sleeve of your lovely dress, and Alastor’s chuckle fades. 

“Oh darling, don’t be so serious. So you can’t return to that stuffy place, why ever would you want to? Things are much more lively down here, I’m sure you’ll love it!” His cheer bounces right off of you, and after a beat he sighs.

“Dearest please stop crying, its unbecoming.” He tries, making a sound of discomfort and then patting you awkwardly on the head with one hand.

You flinch and swat the hand away, looking up at him accusingly.

“Liar! We had a deal! You said if I finished the game you would help me go home, you can’t just give up because it’s ‘impossible’” You hiss, wiping at your eyes.

Alastor tics his heat to the side, blinking owlishly.

“Darling, I believe the terms of our deal were that I would help you to ‘get back’ where you came from. I cannot return you to heaven, that is far outside my abilities, but if you really wish, I can return you to where you were before.”

You look at him suspiciously.

“To where I was before?” You are certain you were in heaven before this, when you had followed the White Rabbit, but somehow the idea of going _back_ seems alluring. You know it does not mean back to heaven, and yet, you find, _yes,_ you want to go _back_.

You nod at Alastor slowly, sniffing once. His brows furrow slightly, and he seems to wrestle with something.

“You could stay, you know. You have been so very interesting and, while the trial was I admit a rather childish stage play, I have had such fun with you around. You are so entertaining darling.” His smile grows, hungry again, but oddly unintimidating this time.

Stay in this mad place? You would have scoffed at the idea minutes ago, but Alastor seems to oddly…genuine, so uncharacteristically so, that you find you almost consider it. Remain and play mad croquet and put on mock trials and have courtroom brawls. It’s absurd, certainly, but you must admit that you have had _some_ fun, if only a little.

“No, Alastor, I can’t. I need to go back, I have things to do, I can’t just stay here playing house forever. And besides, we had a deal.” You say. You go to wipe your face again but Alastor stops you.

“Darling you look an absolute fright, do you know there is red paint all over your face?” He pulls out a handkerchief and dabs at your cheek with a disapproving noise. After a moment he pauses.

“Ah, well, I suppose you’re right. A deal is a deal after all, even if the outcome is rather boring.” He sighs and puts the handkerchief back in his front pocket, then leans forward, so close you can feel his breath as it ghosts across his neck and smell the spicy iron scent of his hair.

“Darling,” He whispers into your ear, and you feel your skin raise in goosebumps, “wake up.”

And then you are tumbling, jerked back by some invisible string tied to your breastbone, and everything is falling away, falling, falling, tumbling backwards into a bright searing light.

You flail, tangling in your sheets, and hit the ground with a resounding _thump_. You groan and roll over, pushing the tangled fabric off of your horn and blinking up into the harsh light of morning.

Above you looms Alastor, looking rather startled, already dressed in his pinstriped suit.

“My, what an active sleeper you are my dear. Why, you practically took my head off!” His laugh track chimes behind him and you groan again, pulling the sheet back over your face, trying to block out his smug grin.

“ _Tsk tsk_ , my dear, do you know what time it is?” a hand seizes your sheet and yanks , spilling you unceremoniously onto the floor in a heap, “it’s nearly ten o’clock, which means you are late for work, and I, generously, have come to rouse you.”

“ _Generous,_ ” you mock, tugging on the edge of your shirt to make sure your wings are covered, your annoyance growing as you wake up.

“Certainly my dear!” Alastor exclaims, patting you condescendingly on the head. You swat at his hand and glare up at him, “Just look at you, you would be absolutely hopeless without me. You even got into something in your sleep you silly girl, there’s red all over your cheek!” He laughs to himself, and you rub at your cheek absently, feeling something rough peeling away, “Now hurry and get dressed darling, you have a long day ahead of you!”

Alastor, at least, sees himself out, leaving you sitting on the floor, staring at the little red flakes in your hand. 

_Like dried paint_ , you think, and then you smile.

**Author's Note:**

> As always! Comments, questions, criticism, anything at all is appreciated!


End file.
